


Freelance Good Guys: The Wretched Forge

by TheGreys (alienjpeg)



Series: Looming Gaia [9]
Category: Freelance Good Guys, Looming Gaia, Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Elves, Fantasy, Happy Ending, Horror, Team as Family, Undead, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienjpeg/pseuds/TheGreys
Summary: A simple contract to wrangle bandits turns into a waking nightmare, and the Freelance Good Guys meet their most menacing enemy yet. Who is this mysterious masked monster, and what does he want with Isaac?





	Freelance Good Guys: The Wretched Forge

**Author's Note:**

> This story can read on its own, but it's technically part of the "Freelance Good Guys" series. It'll make more sense if you read them in order.
> 
> For concept art, lore, and worldbuilding stuff check out the masterpost: https://loominggaia.tumblr.com/post/175087795478/looming-gaia-masterpost

_SUMMER, 6004_

 

     The Freelance Good Guys had built quite a reputation over the last few years. Now with their established HQ in Drifter’s Hollow, contracts could be mailed in from all over world. There was no shortage of work these days, and that was presenting a bit of a problem.

 

     Captain Evan Atlas was short on staff. The contracts were piling up and his meager crew of six just couldn’t get to them all in time. They were losing money by the day, and it’s not like everyone was racing to work for a lycanthrope. All too many were racing to _turn in_ a lycanthrope for a fat bounty. Needless to say, Evan’s hiring process was a slow and cautious procedure.

 

     Tonight he was up late again, sorting through the stack of contracts and bounties piled on his desk. They stood nearly as tall as he, and it was up to him to determine which ones were most worthy of his crew’s limited resources. He tossed reject after reject aside, about to toss yet another when a familiar name caught his eye.

 

     “WANTED: GAZWAN OF GOLDSTEP OUTPOST AND CO. . .

LAST SEEN AMBUSHING CARAVANS BETWEEN UFASI AND DUIIN, YERIM-MOR KINGDOM. . .

10,000GP REWARD FOR CAPTURE. . .”

 

     “Gazwan?” Evan muttered aloud. Could it be? He hadn’t heard that name in a decade! So Gazwan was still alive, and it seemed he was back to his old games since the last time Evan scared the soul out of him. No matter, he thought, for he had a whole crew to back him up this time. The gold was practically in his pocket already.

 

     Evan struck the contract with a rubber stamp.

 

     “APPROVED”

 

*

 

     As the sun set behind the rolling dunes, the miserable heat of the Serkel Desert started to cool. But the night was also a shroud for thieves and miscreants, crawling out from their shady dens to haunt the roads.

 

     Gazwan was among the worst of them. Somehow this crusty old satyr managed to charm an army of thugs yet again, and their force was something the crumbling Yerim-Mor military just wasn’t willing to contend with.

 

     But the Freelance Good Guys were more than willing if the price was right. And for some of them, this mission was personal.

“I shouldn’t have let him go,” Evan murmured. “If I had only turned him in, I could have spared some lives today.”

Lukas, Evan’s best friend and finest archer, crouched beside him. They were hidden in the shadow of a stone obelisk overlooking the trade route.

 

     Lukas rolled his eyes and said, “I’m starting to think you _like_ flogging yourself. Don’t think this isn’t personal for me too. That bastard made me his slave for weeks.” The archer tested the give on his bowstring. “Can’t wait to put a hot arrow between his eyes…”

 

     “No. Let’s try to capture him alive,” Evan told him. He turned to the rest of his crew hidden just behind them. “But alive or dead, we need to bring proof back to the client. And I’d rather not carry Gazwan’s reeking, severed head all the way back to Ufasi…”

“I’ll carry it! I’ll skewer it on a damn pole for the rest of these lowlifes to see!” exclaimed Glenvar, the crew’s shortest and roundest fighter.

 

     Evan hushed him, for his lycanthrope ears picked up a squeaky wheel in the distance. A caravan wagon was rolling over the dune, just a silhouette against the blood-red sunset. The mercenaries watched it roll down the road in silence. The wagon was pulled by four camels and flanked by two human guards in slapdash armor. The guards were armed with spears and mounted upon underfed mules.

 

     “Oh, they’re going to get _destroyed_ …” Lukas muttered. Evan pressed a finger to his lips. The caravan was getting closer now, enough to make out the long, drooping ears of the goblin driver. The wagon passed them by and the mercenaries watched with hardly a breath. Would this one actually make it to its destination?

 

     Apparently not.

 

     Just before it rolled out of sight, shrill war-cries pierced the air. The mercenaries jumped with a start, and so too did the guards’ mules, rearing back with brays of fear. In an instant, about two dozen silhouettes came pouring over the stony mountain like rubble.

 

     They surrounded the caravan in a flash, thieves mostly satyr and human. What few elves they had in their ranks enchanted the mules, forcing them to throw the guards and flee. The caravan was brutally attacked, the guards quickly absorbed into the fray.

 

     “Let’s get ‘em!” growled Glenvar, rising to his feet to charge.

Evan yanked him back and hissed, “Not yet! Let’s see where they go. We’ll pull them up by the roots.”

 

     Just as fast as they appeared, the horde of thieves vanished back over the mountain. They left nothing but three corpses and a broken, empty cart behind. Evan cautiously led his crew in their wake. They kept a healthy distance behind the bandits as they trailed them for miles across the desert, taking cover behind boulders, obelisks, and dry grasses.

 

     Now they were well off the beaten path, and Evan could only imagine these bandits were using the stars to navigate. There were no roads out here, no military outposts or signs of civilization at all—except for a single pyramid-shaped ruin standing in the middle of the wasteland.

 

     A line of columns led to its entrance, an enormous doorway shaped like the screeching beak of a roc. A heavy stone door blocked the way inside. The Freelance Good Guys ducked behind a stack of boulders as they watched Gazwan and his motley crew march up to the pyramid. They hitched their stolen mounts to a column, camels and mules alike.

 

     “That place is huge,” said Alaine. “Gazwan must be rolling in dirty gold to pay for a base like that!”

“Something tells me he doesn’t _pay_ for anything,” Lukas muttered. Alaine shrugged and sucked at a small rubber hose leading to her back. It was attached to a metal water tank—essential for keeping a mermaid hydrated in the desert.

 

     Gazwan marched ahead of the others, stopping before the heavy door. Evan squinted in the darkness, and with his keen eyes he could see how the satyr’s once dark hair had turned gray as slate. His beard was long and unkempt, posture a bit slumped with arthritis. Scars and burns littered nearly every inch of his skin.

 

     Gazwan was a bit aged when Evan met him years ago, but he shouldn’t have looked _this_ ragged. Perhaps the harsh life of a criminal had just taken its toll. The door slowly began to rise up into the top of the archway, powered by some unseen mechanism. The mercenaries watched the bandits march inside, and as the door began to close, they knew they had to act quickly.

 

     Evan rushed forth with his crew in tow, kicking up clouds of sand as they booked it to the pyramid. Lukas was the first to arrive, but it had already closed with a heavy thump. “Damn it!” he cursed and pounded his fist against the stone. The others arrived shortly and began looking around for a lever, a switch—anything to open it.

 

     Evan counted the heads around him. Blond, blue, red, brown…Black was missing. “Isaac? Where’d you get to?” he queried.

“Coming! I tripped over a rock!” the boy announced. He scrambled out from a tuft of tall grass, brushing the sand off of his leather armor.

 

     He was fourteen years old now. Old enough to wield the bladed staff on his back, according to the crew, but Evan sometimes had his doubts.

 

     “It must open remotely. Look for a—” Evan began, then a loud clunk from the door cut him off. Just as Isaac approached the door, it began to rise. The mercenaries stood frozen, weapons drawn. Behind the door was a deep, dark stairway with an ominous red light flickering from its depths.

 

     The Freelance Good Guys exchanged uncertain glances. Over the wind, they could faintly hear screams and cackles from below. Evan nodded towards the doorway. “Helmets on,” he said, and led the way. The others buckled their helms tight, kept their weapons in white-knuckled grips while they descended the long stairway.

 

     The lower they went, the higher the temperature rose. At the bottom of the stairs the air was oppressively hot, and now they could see why. The staircase opened to a massive chamber of horrors all aglow in red. The chamber was tall and circular, with stone balconies overlooking a pit of lava deep down below.

 

     The ceiling stretched high and came to a point; likely the very top of the pyramid. Stone steps were carved into the wall, spiraling down and down until they reached the lava. The pit was like a boiling moat surrounding a platform, and upon that platform was some kind of giant forge.

 

     The top of the forge lie wide open and glowing red-hot, black smoke billowing towards the ceiling as dworfen blacksmiths shaped an arsenal of weapons and armor. The mercenaries crept behind a column and cloaked themselves in its bold shadow.

 

     All they could do was observe the organized chaos around them, for they hadn’t expected anything like this.

 

     The place was busy with hundreds of bustling pyriads, skorpius, and bonewalkers. They shambled and skittered and skipped about carrying tools, weapons, and raw materials. A precariously narrow bridge crossed the balconies over the lava moat, and at the end of the bridge was an elevated throne overlooking it all.

 

     Massive piles of gold flanked the throne, everything from coins to jewelry to bouillon stacked high. The mercenaries found Gazwan and his band of thieves crossing the bridge with their armfuls of ill-gotten goods.

 

     They stopped and kneeled before the throne. Here lounged a muscular human with sickly grey skin. His whole head was obscured by a golden jackal mask.

 

     His chest was bare and marred by thousands of scars, beaded leather collars hanging from his neck. The garment around his waist was of dyed leather in red and black with warrior’s sandals on his feet.

 

     The masked man clutched a crescent-shaped golden scythe in his right hand. The eyes of the mask were ruby-red and seemed to glow. Gazwan dropped to his furry knees before the man and said, “We have returned with materials for the forge. We hope we have pleased you, Master Disgrace.”

 

     The bandits held out their hands, offering their trinkets to the masked man. He rose from his throne and examined them, plucking a necklace from the hands of an elven bandit. It was dull, a cheap thing of bronze. He tossed it aside and delivered a kick to the elf, sending him tumbling down, down, down into the lava far below.

 

     The other bandits’ hands began to quake. One by one Disgrace disapproved of their cheap loot and threw them down to their boiling demise. At last he reached Gazwan and seized him by the neck. The old satyr felt his hooves rise off the floor, clawed at Disgrace’s iron grip as he rasped, “Please—don’t! J-just give me another chance, Master! Please!”

 

     His pleading fell on deaf ears. Disgrace tossed the howling bandit leader over the edge of the pit like he was nothing but refuse, then made his way back to his throne.

 

     A pyriad soon danced by wearing thin black veils. She was a flame-nymph,  an elfish creature of feminine form, red-skinned and hair of luminescent orange. She clutched Disgrace’s arm. “Perhaps _I_ can please you, Master?” she beamed, flashing a wide, fanged grin.

 

     It seemed the masked man was no kind of mood, for he jerked his arm from her grasp and backhanded her across her face. The blow sent the poor flame nymph spinning before she hit the ground. Quickly she scrambled to her cloven hooves, begged her apologies and then hurried away.

 

     “Who _is_ this guy?” whispered Lukas.

Evan shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know, but it looks like our contract is forfeit. Let’s just get out of here.”

 

     The mercenaries started creeping back towards the stairway, careful to move slowly and stay in the shadows. All but Isaac, who stood stiff as a board with eyes round as coins. These eyes were unblinking, fixated on Disgrace as if he’d gone catatonic. Evan ushered the others to the stairs when he noticed that once again, he was one head short.

 

     “Isaac!” he hissed. But the boy didn’t hear him. Isaac was standing beside the column, uncaring that he was no longer cloaked in shadow. There he was in plain sight, looking at Disgrace. And a moment later, Disgrace’s head suddenly jerked to face him. Even through the mask, they seemed to make eye contact.

 

     Both of them froze there for what felt like an eternity, until Evan snatched the boy and carried him back up the stairs. The others were already waiting at the top, pounding on the closed door. “It won’t open, Chief!” cried Glenvar.

 

     But as Evan approached with Isaac in his arms, the door began to rise, and the mercenaries quickly slipped under it.

 

     The cool air outside was a shock to their sweaty faces. They unhitched some of the stolen camels and rode back towards the city, where a dingy inn room and plenty of alcohol were waiting. Perhaps they could simply drink away what they’d seen tonight.

 

     Isaac wouldn’t climb into the saddle on his own. He would hardly even blink. Evan had to climb on first and pull the boy into his lap, giving him a shake as he barked, “Isaac, snap out of it! We’re leaving now. There’s no need to be afraid.”

 

     Finally Isaac blinked his dry eyes, brought his hands to his sweaty face. He wiped his palm across his forehead and mumbled, “I don’t feel good.”

“I imagine not,” Evan replied, giving him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to see that. That was… _Not_ what I expected to find in there.”

 

     Jeimos turned to their captain and stammered, “M-Mr. Atlas, that fellow in the mask…I think I’ve seen him before!”

Evan quirked an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“Well, I saw an image that looked like him. It was about a year ago, when we killed that skorpius.”

“Ah, when that lich sucked out our souls and then puked ‘em back up,” added Glenvar. “I remember that! Good times.”

 

     Jeimos continued, “The image was carved into the last door of that dungeon. It was a man wearing a jackal mask, and he held a scythe just the same as his!” They gestured vaguely towards the pyramid behind them. “There were other images too, but they were…Ghastly.” The elf shuddered. “He must have some sort of influence across the desert.”

 

     Evan replied, “Well, I’m sure he’s no _positive_ influence.”

“So I take it we’re not getting paid for this one, huh?” queried Alaine, blue lips curved into a frown.

The captain reminded her, “We have no shortage of work, Alaine. Let’s just be grateful we got out of that wretched place unharmed.”

 

     The camels plodded along, the clomp-clomp-clomping of their hooves almost deafening in the eerie silence of the desert. Evan looked down at Isaac, still trembling in the saddle in front of him. The boy always took even the most harrowing adventures in stride. But something about this “Wretched Forge” seemed to shake him to his core.

 

     The mercenaries jumped, startled as a full, piercing screech tore through the silence. They whirled around and saw a massive black shadow careening through the sky. It was headed straight for them on huge feathery wings as black as coal: a titan bird called a roc. Its long tail flowed behind it like a ribbon in the wind.

 

     It sped towards the mercenaries with talons outstretched, each clawed toe as long as a man was tall. The Freelance Good Guys whipped their reigns and the mounts scattered.

 

     The roc turned to follow Evan and Isaac as their camel ran for all their lives. It wasn’t nearly fast enough, so Evan pulled Isaac into his arms and abandoned ship. A cloud of sand sprayed up when they hit the ground, harsh and gritty up their noses and between their teeth.

 

     The roc’s claws sank into the camel’s hide. The groaning animal was carried high into the sky, mercenaries looking on in equal parts amazement and fear. But it seemed this roc wasn’t hungry—at least not for camel, for it dropped the animal to its demise and made a sweeping U-turn back towards them.

 

     They could see now that this was no wild predator. A chain was wrapped around its beak like a bridle, a saddle upon its back, and sitting in that saddle was none other than Disgrace in his gleaming golden mask. He raised his scythe high above his head, glowing ruby eyes fixated upon Evan and Isaac.

 

     The two quickly rose to their feet. Evan readied his sword and shield. “Get behind me,” he barked, and Isaac ducked behind his knees.

 

     There was no time to run. The roc was upon them in a fraction of a second. Evan raised his shield and the bird’s talons crashed into it at such velocity, it sent the lycanthrope flying, rolling, tumbling thirty feet back. Isaac was knocked down but unharmed, left to rub the sand out of his eyes.

 

     Before he was launched, Evan got a good slice in with his sword and lopped off the roc’s other leg entirely. It lie twitching in the sand nearby as the animal ascended, screeching furiously at the stars above. Still it was undeterred, swooping back for another go.

 

     The other mercenaries did everything they could to stop it as it rocketed towards Isaac. Lukas fired arrow after arrow, each one disappearing into the bird’s bulk like mere splinters. Jeimos’ magical fireballs missed, exploding into a rain of cinders in the sky.

 

     Glenvar pulled every hidden dagger off his person but couldn’t throw them far enough. Alaine aimed her spear at Disgrace and let it fly, but the masked man swiftly caught it and threw it back. The weapon stuck into the sand, missing the mermaid by inches.

 

     Now it was too late. Isaac tried to scramble away when the roc’s shadow draped over him like a net. It swooped down and Disgrace swung his long scythe with mechanical precision. The curved blade hooked the boy’s armor. Before he knew it, he was pulled into the saddle with the mysterious masked man, struggling against his iron grip.

 

     “Let me go! Let! Me! Go!” the boy wailed. He kicked his legs, wriggled like mad, even sunk his teeth into Disgrace’s arm. Blood gushed forth and yet the masked man didn’t flinch. He simply jerked the reigns and steered the roc towards the pyramid.

 

     The mercenaries galloped after them on their camels, hollering threats as they threw weapons, stones, pieces of their armor—whatever they could to slow the animal down. Jeimos conjured a massive fireball between their hands and launched it. Disgrace whipped around and batted it away with his scythe. The elf then collapsed from arcane fatigue, falling off their mount with a thump.

 

     Lukas pulled the last arrow from his quiver and aimed it at the back of Disgrace’s neck. The arrow zipped through the air and just barely missed its bullseye. It pierced through the back of his shoulder, and only a moment later, he and the roc disappeared back into the pyramid.

 

     The door wasn’t closing yet. There was still time. The mercenaries rushed forward with a mighty war cry, cut to a squeak when Digrace’s minions began pouring up the stairs. They gushed out of the doorway like flood waters: armored skorpius with their mighty claws, cackling pyriads with their flaming powers, hideous bonewalkers with their gnarled, ancient weapons…

 

     The Freelance Good Guys were outnumbered and overpowered ten times over. They had no choice but to turn and flee. Alaine swiped Jeimos’ robes on the way, pulling their unconscious body into her lap. Lukas slowed his camel briefly, just long enough for Evan to hop in the saddle behind him, and then they too were fleeing the scene.

 

     Gold-plated daggers, bone arrows, and pyriad fireballs were lobbed in their wake. Disgrace’s minions bluff-charged them until the mercenaries were over the horizon and out of sight. Then the horde funneled back into the pyramid with their vile Master, the massive door slamming heavily behind them.

 

*

 

     The roc circled the round interior of the Wretched Forge before tumbling to a messy landing. Its leg collapsed below its weight without a second to support it, and there it lie in front of the throne, crowing pathetically.

 

     Disgrace carelessly pulled the arrow from his shoulder and a gush of blood, black as tar, rolled out from the wound. He dismounted with Isaac’s wrist in his grasp. The boy reached for the bladed staff on his back, but a pyriad was quick to snatch it from him and run off with a giggle.

 

     Isaac kicked at Disgrace’s shins, pounded his fists against his chest, bit his hand, but it was as if the masked man felt no pain. Like a stone, he was stoic and immovable, and his skin felt just as cool.

 

     The boy shouted empty threats, went limp and refused to walk as Disgrace tried to move forward. So Disgrace let go of his wrist and clutched his head of curly hair instead. Isaac yelped, eyes watering, and the pain forced him along in compliant silence.

 

     Disgrace led him down the long, spiraling stairway to the forge. It wasn’t a short trip, and Isaac witnessed many a grisly sight he hadn’t noticed before. Dozens of iron cages dangled from the bridge above, where suffering nymphs begged for freedom. There were plenty more cages to be found all over the chamber, some stacked on precarious ledges overlooking the lava pit, some hanging from fixtures on the walls, others carried to and fro by minions.

 

     “You don’t have a soul, do you?” Isaac growled at his captor, digging his nails into the man-monster’s arm. “A person would never do this to other people. A _beast_ wouldn’t even do this to people! You must be a monster! A wicked, evil, monster with no soul!”

 

     The punching, kicking, and biting couldn’t incite a flinch from Disgrace. But something about Isaac’s words seemed to sting him ever so slightly, for he tightened his grip on the boy’s hair and gave it a jerk, threatening him into silence once more.

 

     The roc began squawking from the highest balcony above. Isaac looked up, watched a mob of minions surround the bird and absorbed it in their chaos. The squawking fell quiet. Within minutes its feathers were greedily plucked, the meat picked from its bones, and the bones carried away.

 

     The mob dissipated, leaving nothing of the massive beast behind except a pool of blood. Isaac shuddered. Fear and anger pushed against his belly, his chest, his throat, trying to claw their way out in his tears. But he would not cry. Not in front of Disgrace. This cretin didn’t deserve the satisfaction.

 

     Finally they arrived at the moat of lava. The air rippled like water, thick and oppressive with its heat as red bubbles expanded and burst all around. Disgrace dragged Isaac across the bridge to the forge, where no less than four dworfen blacksmiths were bustling around. They wore protective masks of metal and glass with thick boots and gloves, shoveling coal, pouring molten metal and shaping it into brutal weapons.

 

     They suddenly dropped to their knees when Disgrace crossed the bridge. Their foreman bowed his head to the grimy floor and groveled, “We tremble with fear in your presence, Master Disgrace. What is it you desire from us?”

 

     Disgrace tapped his own mask with the end of his scythe, then thrusted Isaac forward by the hair. He didn’t speak a word, yet the blacksmiths understood his simple gestures clearly.

 

     “A mask for the boy?” queried the foreman, cautiously rising to his stubby dworfen feet. “But Master, I…I’m afraid we’ll lose over half of our forces if we—”

 

     His words gave way to a shriek as Disgrace brought his scythe down, its sharp edge piercing straight through the foreman’s thick leather boot. Blood gushed out, staining the end of the weapon when he pulled it free. The foreman spoke through gritted teeth behind his mask, “You have my deepest gratitude for sparing me, Master Disgrace! You will have a new mask within the hour!”

 

     With that, he hopped back to his work on one foot and blew some kind of horn. The sound was low and deafening, like the growl of a giant predator. Another blacksmith approached Isaac with a metal tool, used it to take measurements of his face. Isaac spit on his protective mask as a last stand of rebellion. Disgrace still had an iron grip on his hair, forced to stand in the miserable heat and watch as minions formed a mob on the bridge above.

 

     Isaac glared up at them, met all their glowing, piercing eyes. They were glowering down, laughing in sick delight. Then, a pyriad stepped to the very edge and cried, “For Mankind’s Disgrace, Divine of Hatred!” The mob cheered as she then dived gracefully off the bridge, plummeting straight into the top of the forge.

 

     Molten goo splashed over the contraption, flames shooting high and smoke billowing out. Another pyriad stepped up to the edge and shouted, “For Mankind’s Disgrace, Lord of Fear!” She too dived straight into the forge. One by one several pyriads declared their devotion to their master before following suit.

 

     “For Mankind’s Disgrace, Champion of War!”

“For Mankind’s Disgrace, King of Violence!”

“For Mankind’s Disgrace, Overlord of Torment!”

 

     The forge grew hotter and more volatile with every pyriad it swallowed. Isaac could hardly keep his eyes open in its heat. He squinted towards the ceiling, and through the smoke he saw skorpius removing nymphs from their iron cages. They carried the flailing limniads, maenads, hydriads, and dryads to the bridge, tossing them down into the forge.

 

     Now all of the cages lie empty, but the blacksmiths still weren’t satisfied. “More sacrifices!” the foreman called up to the bridge. The minions scurried off to scour the chamber. They returned shortly with more offerings: goats, pigs, emaciated prisoners of all kinds, and over the bridge they went.

 

     “More! More and more still, you fools!” the foreman bellowed. There were no victims left in the chamber, so the skorpius sacrificed themselves in desperation to please their overlord.. At least half of the skorpius leaped into the forge before the foreman called, “Enough!”

 

     Slowly the forge cooled, flames dying down as the blacksmiths poured the glowing red goo into a mold. Disgrace stalked around the perimeter, dragging Isaac behind. He oversaw his workers while they meticulously hammered and shaped the mask into its final shape.

 

     At the end of it all, it looked identical to Disgrace’s mask except for its size. It was fitted perfectly for Isaac’s face, complete with a leather cowl and ruby eyes. The foreman offered their craft to his master with a steep bow. The other blacksmiths seized Isaac’s arms and held him in place.

 

     Disgrace stabbed the end of his scythe in the stony ground and it stuck in place. With his free hands he took the new mask and tilted his head. He seemed to admire it for a brief moment. Then he flipped the cowl over the front and turned the interior towards Isaac, revealing thousands of red hook-like worms inside. They wriggled and stretched, reaching for the boy’s face with their barbed ends.

 

     “No! I won’t!” Isaac shouted. He kicked and pulled against the dworfs’ grips, but it was no use. Disgrace pressed the mask against his face.

 

     Isaac gnashed his teeth in disgust. But the worms did not sink their hooks in, for the moment they touched his flesh, they dissolved into fine ash. Disgrace’s muscles tensed. Even without a face he was visibly dumbfounded. He pulled the mask back and turned it over to examine the problem. It suddenly slipped between his fingers as it crumbled to pieces.

 

     The blacksmiths lifted their own masks, bloodshot eyes round and fearful. There was a moment of total silence, even the few minions left on the bridge stricken quiet and still. Disgrace’s hands clenched into fists. Quickly he jerked his scythe out of the ground and raised it high.

 

     “No, no! Plea—” the foreman begged uselessly, for his head had already been lopped off. Disgrace silently pointed the end of the weapon at another blacksmith. He didn’t have to say a word, that blacksmith understood that she was now appointed the new forewoman.

 

     “I-I will determine the problem, Master, at once!” she said. “But to make another mask, we will need more sacrifices.”

Disgrace understood, and so did his minions. All he had to do was point his weapon at the bridge, and the horde of skorpius, pyriads, and bonewalkers flooded out the door to terrorize the desert.

 

*

 

     The Freelance Good Guys thought they would have a fat reward jingling in their pockets right about now. In reality, all they had was pocket change and a missing Guy.

 

     Ufasi was a town stricken by poverty, though its tavern seemed to be doing better than ever in these depressing times. Midnight was approaching, and so every seat in the place was occupied with laughing, crying, drunken customers. But not everyone was here to drink.

 

     Some loitered here to find work. People with problems came to the tavern, and some offered to make those problems disappear for a price. A cheating spouse could be taught a lesson, a stolen ring could be found, a kidnapped child could be rescued…

 

     The Freelance Good Guys needed backup, and fast. So they pooled their meager earnings and sought the help of three additional mercenaries. They called themselves “The Steel Knuckle Squad”, and one look at their leader, Balthazaar, explained why.

 

     He was a burly brown-skinned human with gold rings trailing up each earlobe. His round gut bulged his armor, long black beard unrestrained beneath a shiny bald head. He wore the biggest, most over-the-top steel gauntlets Evan had ever seen. A long steel spike jutted from each knuckle, with shorter spikes covering the tops and sides.

 

     “We don’t work for scraps, Friend,” he told Evan. “Scrounge up fifty times that and we’ll _think_ about facing off with some skorpius for you.”

Evan replied, “Look, there were heaps of treasure piled up in that place, enough to buy this whole town! If you help us, you can have it all. We just want our friend back.”

 

     “Treasure, huh?” Balthazaar snorted doubtfully.

Jeimos stepped forward, wringing their gloved hands. They said, “I saw it with my own eyes. There was a throne surrounded by gold and gems, a hoard greater than I’ve ever seen. An elf couldn’t lie to you, could they?”

 

     Balthazaar stroked his beard, eyebrows jumping briefly. “Fair enough…” he rumbled.

One of his cohorts spoke up, a young goblin with a forest-green complexion and a round lens covering one eye. The lens was attached to his long, pointed ear. “But you say this treasure is guarded by skorpius?” he queried flatly.

 

     “And pyriads,” added Lukas.

“And bonewalkers,” added Alaine.

“And some wench-slappin’ scalawag, thinks he’s a mongrel,” added Glenvar.

 

     Balthazaar slowly nodded, gaze drifting to the ceiling. He deliberated for a moment, then turned to his crew. “Linde?”

A petite elfenne, fair of skin with long, ivory hair said to him, “I’m in!”

“Skel?” queried Balthazaar.

“I’m in,” said the goblin.

 

     “Then I guess that settles it,” said Balthazaar. He turned back to Evan. “We’ll do it. Give us a few minutes and we’ll meet you by the obelisk on the edge of town.”

 

     With that, the Freelance Good Guys left the tavern and made their way down dusty, uneven dirt roads. Crooked sandstone buildings surrounded them on either side, dim streetlamps buzzing with magical energy. They stood together in the silence of the night with their camels. Then they heard clomping hooves in the distance.

 

     An armored centaur galloped towards them, with none other than Balthazaar and his two other crewmates riding on his back. The centaur’s long black locks whipped behind him, his muscled torso the color of wet soil and his equine body black as jet. He was armed with two long machetes sheathed on his belt.

 

     He slowed to a stop before the Freelance Good Guys.

“Aaaaand who is this?” Lukas queried, eyeballing the massive centaur with skepticism.

Balthazaar flashed a grin and replied, “Why, he’s our ride!”

 

     “Your _ride_ ,” the centaur repeated, rolling his eyes. “Sure, and you’re my _cargo_.” He then extended a hand to Evan, greeted, “Name’s Javaan. I heard you have a monster problem.”

 

     Evan shook his hand and replied, “We’ve got all kinds of problems. But let’s start with the monsters, shall we?”

Javaan grinned. “I’m full of bloodlust and liquid courage, my friend. Just lead the way and turn me loose!”

 

     The Freelance Good Guys and the Steel Knuckle Squad crossed the desert together, moving as fast as their weary mounts would trot. First they returned to the place where the caravan was ambushed, its broken remains still marking the scene. All three corpses had already been dragged off by animals.

 

     From there they went over the mountain and Evan’s keen nose picked up many scents. He followed the scent of blood, smoke, tobacco, and alcohol all the way back to the pyramid. There it stood, alone and unassuming. The outside gave no indication of the horrors that lie within.

 

     Cautiously they crept up to the door. This time, it didn’t open. “How do we get into this place?” asked Skel.

Evan pressed his palms against the stone, searched for some kind of button. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It seemed to open every time our friend came near. I thought it may be a coincidence, but…”

 

     “Told you, kid’s cursed,” said Lukas. Evan shot a glare at the archer before returning to the door. He examined the edges, closed so tightly that not even a breeze could escape. The mercenaries circled the entire pyramid in search of a lever, a button, a secret entrance—any way to get inside before it was too late. What was happening to poor Isaac in there, they couldn’t bear to imagine.

 

     “We’re wasting time,” declared Balthazaar. He stepped up to the door and clanged his steel fists together. “I say we try knocking!” That said, he drew his arm back and delivered a mighty punch to the stone. The tiniest chunk broke away. With another punch, a little crack appeared. Upon the third punch, the fissure grew by a half-inch.

 

     Lukas sighed. “Great. Let’s face the monster horde with broken arms. Maybe they’ll take pity and kill us quickly…”

“Got any better ideas, Slim?” rumbled Javaan, then he charged towards the door and kicked it with his front hooves.

 

     “Get outta the way! Let me try!” Linde exclaimed, and once her cohorts split, she raised a short wooden wand and charged it with magical energy. The white crystal on its tip illuminated brightly, and then from it she fired a concentrated beam of frost.

 

     The frost spread over the door from edge to edge. Once the surface was coated in white, she said, “Okay, _now_ hit it!” Balthazaar and Javaan returned to the door and on the count of three, they delivered their mightiest blows to its center. The sheet of ice exploded, glittering shards raining down upon them.

 

     But the door itself hadn’t lost its integrity, still standing solid and immovable in their path. Linde grumbled under her breath while Skel scratched his chin in thought. The goblin turned to the Freelance Good Guys and asked, “Does the door move up or down?”

 

     “Up,” they answered simultaneously, recalling the way they narrowly squeezed through it on their way out.

“Alright, then everyone shut up and let me concentrate,” said Skel. The others watched him, silent and curious as he stepped in front of the door and pressed two glowing fingers to each of his temples.

 

     He gnashed his teeth, eyes lighting up with a faint yellow glow in the darkness. His arms began to tremble, then his knees, and soon he began to groan as if straining to lift something. It appeared he _was_ lifting something—not with his muscles, but with the power of telekinesis.

 

     Little stones and debris around the door began to lift off the ground. They levitated slowly, up and up as Skel’s groaning escalated to a scream. But even as the veins in his forehead threatened to burst, the door stubbornly refused to move. Finally the goblin’s eyes rolled back in his head, he stumbled a few paces and then collapsed into the sand.

 

     Balthazaar rushed to his side and helped him to his feet. Shaking off a dizzying head rush, Skel rubbed at his bald, aching skull and panted, “Did it budge at all?”

His captain hesitated. He forced a smile and a lie. “I think heard it move a little…”

The goblin’s teeth flashed in a grin, hopeful and genuine.

 

     “Perhaps if we combine our strength, we can lift it together?” suggested Evan. With lack of a better idea, the nine mercenaries lined up in front of the door and clutched its bottom edge. They counted down, “Three…Two…”

 

     A sound in the distance caught their attention. Each of them turned and saw a cloud of dust blooming in the dark sky. Something big was coming over the horizon.

 

     “Hide!” hissed Evan, and the group scattered behind the many large pillars around the pyramid. Under the shroud of night they were nearly invisible to the horde of approaching monsters. The door finally slid open with a loud scrape. At least six skorpius, a dozen pyriads, and two dozen bonewalkers returned to the pyramid with screaming, struggling victims in their grasp.

 

     The mercenaries carefully peeked out from behind the pillars, watched the parade of horrors as it disappeared through the doorway. The victims were mostly human, elven, and goblin, perhaps a few nymphs. Their simple cotton rags suggested they were peasants from the nearby villages.

 

     Then something else came over the horizon, a shadow big and bold. Four skorpius had managed to capture a young roc, about half the size of the one the mercenaries saw before. They had bound its wings and beak in a messy tangle of iron chains. Now they were dragging it, flailing and squawking, back to their lair.

 

     As they passed through, the door began to close. Evan signaled to the others, silently told them to follow before he rushed through. Quietly they crept in behind the cackling, whooping monsters, kept a respectable distance as they descended the dark stairway.

 

*

 

     Upon his throne, Disgrace waited for the return of his minions. He appeared impatient, drumming his fingers against the grimy armrest of bone. One of Isaac’s wrists was shackled, its chain attached to the throne, and so he was forced to sit in this hot, miserable underworld and listen to its chaos.

 

     And the chaos never stopped. Since the moment he arrived, it seemed there was no rest for anyone. The screaming and maniacal laughter was constant, always echoing from somewhere over the bubbling lava and the clanging of the blacksmiths. Isaac tried to lose himself deep in his head, tried to devise ways of escaping, tried not to think about certain doom.

 

     When he was young, the mercenaries never let him do anything “fun”. As soon as any real threat showed up, they’d usher him away from the action and refused to give him a weapon. Now he’d lost his weapon just as soon as he’d earned it, his crew was nowhere to be found, and he was having more “fun” than he could handle.

 

     Surely this couldn’t be the end. Would the Guys remember to feed his pet newt? Would they be okay without him? Would they cry when he was gone? Tears welled in Isaac’s eyes, threatened to spill over onto his face. He bit them back, clenched his teeth tight as he glared up at the masked man beside him.

 

     Just then a crowd came spilling in from the stairway. The minions returned not only with new sacrifices, but with a healthy new roc all bound in chains. They seemed rather pleased with themselves, and a skorpius proudly announced, “We bring an offering, Master Disgrace. We hope this pleases you!”

 

     Rising from his throne, Disgrace walked a slow circle around the roc. The animal quivered in his presence, chattered and cawed warily. The masked man grasped one of its chains and hoisted himself onto its back. Immediately the roc began to panic, flapping in its binds as its loud crow echoed through the chamber.

 

     Disgrace held on tight, remained on its back while his minions erupted into a cheering, whooping fit. They surrounded the poor beast and prodded it with their weapons, torturing it into submission. Isaac angrily yanked at his shackle and shouted, “Stop that! Leave it alone!”

 

     The minions couldn’t hear him over their own chaos, and they’d hardly care if they could. Within minutes the roc fell exhausted. It finally stopped struggling, its caws dying to whimpers. It fell limp and pliant under Disgrace’s command, and only then did his minions sheathe their weapons.

 

     The masked man jumped down from the animal’s back, proceeded to cut its chains with his scythe. Clearly it was no ordinary weapon, for its blade severed the iron chains like scissors to thread. Even with its binds removed, the roc lie in place with its beak to the floor. It dared not move. Its round yellow eyes were weary and fearful, glancing at all the hideous faces around it.

 

     Turning away from the roc, Disgrace clutched his scythe in both hands and raised it above his head victoriously. Once more his minions exploded into cheers. “Master is pleased! Master is pleased!” a pyriad chanted. The celebration was short lived. Only a moment later Disgrace demanded another mask, and this time he oversaw the whole process from above on his throne.

 

     From the shadows of twisted columns, the mercenaries watched this sadistic ritual. They’d been waiting for the perfect time to strike, and it seemed that time was fast approaching as Disgrace hemorrhaged even more of his forces to the forge.

 

     Down went the pyriads to stoke a hellish flame. Down went the peasants and down went their livestock to feed it. Then down went the skorpius, leaving Disgrace nothing but an army of shambling, lowly bonewalkers. Isaac didn’t watch this time. He’d seen enough.

 

     Instead, he reached out to the frightened roc and wiggled his fingers. The roc’s eye wandered towards Disgrace. His back was turned, standing at the edge of the balcony to oversee the ritual. Then it looked back at Isaac, offering a smile and a gentle hand.

 

     Compelled by forces beyond it, the animal cautiously shuffled towards him. Isaac touched its smooth beak. It was as long as his arm, hooked at the end like a sickle. But the roc didn’t bite, showed no interest in hurting him at all. It simply picked at his springy coils of hair, grooming them to its liking.

 

     Isaac never thought he could laugh in a place like this. He muffled a snicker into his arm, then hugged the beast around its feathery neck. He saw now, the streaks of blood and awful little wounds where Disgrace’s minions had prodded it. They peppered its body like bug bites, hundreds upon hundreds of burns and shallow stab wounds.

 

     “They shouldn’t treat you so bad,” Isaac muttered. “You didn’t do anything to them. You’re just a baby, huh?”

Massive as it was, this roc still wasn’t fully grown. Perhaps not a fledgling, but a juvenile just learning to hunt on its own. It crowed at him, low and soft.

 

     Isaac continued, “My name’s Isaac. You’re the only friend I got in here. Do you have a name?”

The roc crowed again. The boy scratched its head and decided, “Then we’ll give you one. Um…What about…”

 

     “Master Disgrace, we need one more material for the forge!” cried the forewoman. Disgrace glowered down at her, fists clenched. She continued, “I believe the mask will bind this time if we add just a bit of the boy’s blood!”

 

     Ruby eyes met Isaac’s, glowing and ominous. The boy clutched the roc tightly as he approached. Raising its wings, the roc formed a wall around him and squawked menacingly at Disgrace. The masked man didn’t hesitate to put the bird in its place, clocking it in the head with the smooth, curved side of his scythe.

 

     The roc lost its nerve. It skittered away and cowered behind the throne among all the sparkling gold and gems. It watched with visible distress, chittering and whimpering as Disgrace pulled a dagger from his belt. He stuck the end of his scythe in the ground again, piercing right through the stone to hold it in place.

 

     Then he used his free hand to take Isaac’s unshackled wrist, turning his palm towards the ceiling. “Leave me alone!” the boy screeched. He wriggled and kicked with all his might. It was useless. Disgrace raised the dagger, aiming the blade towards the boy’s wrist.

 

     It was now or never. Evan let out a bellowing war cry, dashing forth with his sword ready to swing. He bashed through a crowd of bonewalkers with his shield and they broke into dusty fragments. Disgrace whipped around, met the lycanthrope’s furious eyes—emerald to ruby.

 

     Quickly he reached for his scythe, but Isaac was quicker. The boy snatched it away and the masked man stumbled as he grasped thin air. Now Evan was upon him, bringing his sword down on the golden mask. The blade sliced into it, just a half-inch or so, like the first chop into a tree.

 

     Evan tried to pull it free for another swipe. But the blade was stuck, and a second later he understood why. Black goop seeped from the fissure around the blade, then hundreds of red, hooked worms wriggled out to grasp the weapon. Disgrace delivered a kick to Evan’s gut, made him lose his grip on the handle and sent him reeling onto his back.

 

     When Disgrace seized the handle and pulled, the worms retreated into the mask and it came out with ease. He threw the sword in a spinning arc and it went sailing down into the lava pit. Now the other eight mercenaries had exploded from their hiding places, plowing through the bonewalkers to aid their captain.

 

     Disgrace quickly turned to grab his scythe, but all he saw was Isaac running away with it. It seemed the boy used it to slice through his chain, and now he was taking it across the bridge towards his friends.

 

     Though they were brittle and armed with dusty old weapons, the bonewalkers outnumbered the mercenaries by the dozens. Jeimos launched a ball of flame to break their hordes apart, but they simply marched through the fire unharmed. Disgrace silently ordered them to block the bridge, and Isaac found himself trapped between several skeletons funneling down the precarious path.

 

     On the balcony ahead, Glenvar and Alaine fought back-to-back, fending off the ring of foes around them. Alaine jammed her spear through a skeletal eyesocket, wrenched it downwards and sent the top of the skull flying. The bonewalker was unharmed, continuing to fight with half of a head.

 

     “Ya can’t kill the dead, Allie,” grunted Glenvar. “Just gotta cripple ‘em so they can’t swing no more!” With that, he bashed a bonewalker’s arm with his hammer and it exploded into dust, its ancient sword clattering to the ground. Alaine parried a swing from behind, kicked the offender away before turning to the monster before her.

 

     Sweat poured down her scaly mermaid face. Her arms trembled with dehydration. A rusty sword pierced her water tank and now it was as dry as the bones strewn around her. Her legs quaked and then she went down, limp and lifeless with no fatal wounds. The heat in the chamber was simply too much.

 

     “Allie!” Glenvar wailed. With no one to guard his back, the horde quickly enclosed around him. But not for long, for Javaan sped by with three warriors upon his back. His bulk alone plowed through most of them, scattering bones like confetti. Balthazaar, Linde, and Skel leaped off his back to disperse the mob.

 

     Balthazaar’s gauntlets made quick work of them, blocking blows and punching limbs to fragments. Linde conjured a ring of ice which sent the bonewalkers slipping to the floor. Once they were down, Skel blasted them with a telekinetic pulse. Skulls, femurs, and chipped swords rained down.

 

     Glenvar dropped to his knees beside Alaine, lying motionless on the floor. He shook the canteen on his belt and said, “All I got is booze! Water—she needs water, quick!”

 

     “Got it!” exclaimed Linde. She raised her hands above her head and conjured a thick cloud of white, frosty mist. It melted immediately in the chamber’s heat, pouring over Alaine like rainfall. The mermaid’s chitin helmet protected her hair, so she did not transform into her aquatic form.

 

     Instead, she awoke with a gasp and shot upright, panting as if she’d run for miles. The flakes and cracks in her skin disappeared. “Take this. On the house,” said Javaan, and he tossed a canteen of water beside her. Then the Steel Knuckle Squad dispersed to fight off the rest of the horde infesting the chamber.

 

     On the center of the precarious bridge, bonewalkers were closing in on Isaac. They reached out with their skeletal fingers to snatch the scythe from him, but the boy wouldn’t allow it. He swung the weapon and it lopped their limbs off with ease, then one by one he knocked them over the side. They tumbled down into the lava far below without so much as a hiss.

 

     Behind, he saw Disgrace storming towards him. The masked man shoved his own bony minions out of his way, sending them to their dooms. More and more bonewalkers funneled down the bridge ahead. There were too many. Isaac was cornered.

 

     “Get away from him, you monster!” a voice growled. Disgrace turned his head, saw Evan limping his way down the bridge after him. With his shield on his back, the captain was armed with nothing but his fists. Then again, so was Disgrace.

 

     There they stood in a face-off for what seemed like an eternity. “Step away from the boy,” Evan warned. “ _Now_.”

Disgrace held his ground, clenching his hands at his sides. The fissure on the top of his mask had somehow mended itself, not a trace of the blade’s wound left.

 

     Stone support beams stretched across the ceiling high above. There crept Lukas in the shadows, looking down on the bridge with his bow in hand. His arrows were useless against the bonewalkers, but if he could get one in Disgrace, perhaps in his leg, he could knock him into the pit.

 

     Lukas took a deep breath, lined up his shot carefully. He had but this one shoddy, makeshift arrow to spare after their last battle outside the pyramid. It was simply a fork he stole from the tavern, tied to a stick with a ragged feather on the end.

 

     Just as he let the arrow fly, Disgrace lunged towards Evan and the shot missed, bouncing off the stone bridge. The two men locked arms, planting their feet solidly on the ground. Each one tried to push eachother over the opposite side. Evan gnashed his teeth, sweat pouring down his armored brow.

 

     Disgrace didn’t seem to sweat, his skin still as cool and grey as a corpse. But his muscles trembled with exertion, and it seemed both of them had finally met their match. “I see you’re no ordinary man,” Evan growled. “Unfortunately for you, neither am I!”

 

     Evan drove his knee up into the masked man’s gut. Stunned only briefly, Disgrace recovered just before Evan could pull him over. He planted his sandal firmly on the bridge’s edge, and with a surge of fury he seized Evan’s throat and pushed him to the floor, nearly throwing them both to their deaths.

 

     Disgrace straddled the lycanthrope with both hands around his neck. Evan’s head dangled over the edge, clawing and pushing at his foe’s arms. But his elbows were locked and Evan’s vision was starting to blur. All he saw was a dark wash of color with two red eyes glowering down at him.

 

     As he choked out what felt like his last breath, someone came to Evan’s rescue. Isaac sprinted to the scene with the giant scythe raised high, ready to lop off Disgrace’s head with his own weapon. Disgrace barely had time to react. He heard the boy’s footsteps, whirled around and raised his hand just in time.

 

     The scythe stopped mid-swing, the top of the handle caught in his grip. His hold on Evan loosened just enough for the delirious captain to roll him over, tossing him down on his back. But he didn’t let go of the scythe, and neither did Isaac. The boy shrieked as he toppled with him.

 

     Isaac let go of the weapon, but just a little too late. Momentum sent him stumbling, flailing, and then falling over the edge of the bridge. Evan screamed his name, scrambled forth on his hands and knees. Disgrace seemed just as distraught, both of them watching helplessly as the boy fell down the pit.

 

     A mighty screech tore through the chamber, bouncing off the walls. The roc swooped down in a black, feathery blur, speeding down the pit like an arrow. It passed the boy in a flash, then it spread its great wings and slowed, landing upon the open edge of the forge.

 

     There was Isaac, dangling from its beak by the ankle of his pants. After a brief moment to compose himself and confirm he wasn’t dead, he hoisted himself up, grasping the bird’s feathers to climb upon its back. Evan sighed with relief. The relief was short-lived, for his enemy was rising to his feet beside him.

 

     Disgrace loomed over Evan with the scythe back in his possession. Evan scrambled back, struggling to get to his feet between his dizziness and his peg leg. The masked man moved forward with assurance, absolute confidence that he would claim the lycanthrope’s life.

 

     But that was not the case, as the roc sped back up to the bridge with Isaac clinging to its neck. One moment Disgrace was raising his scythe over Evan, and in a flash of feathers, he was gone. Evan looked up, saw his foe flailing in the bird’s talons as it carried him all the way to the top of the pyramid.

 

     Before he could cut off its legs with his scythe, Isaac shouted, “Drop him!” Immediately, Disgrace was dropped like a hot coal. The Freelance Good Guys, the Steel Knuckle Squad, the blacksmiths and the remaining bonewalkers watched in awe and horror as the masked man fell down, down, down into the pit.

 

     Finally he splashed into the top of the forge. Just as soon, an explosion of flames rocketed high, nearly lapping at the bridge above. Red molten ooze with spidery black veins gushed over the sides, absorbing the panicking blacksmiths. All the bonewalkers suddenly began to fall apart, bones and weapons clattering all around.

 

     A crack opened in the forge, spreading longer and wider until the entire contraption fall apart. Its pieces slid away into the moat of lava. The lava was turning dark, flaming and boiling violently. Then the whole chamber started to quake. Bits of stone broke away from the ceiling, dust and debris falling all around.

 

     “This place is coming down! Fill your pockets, quick!” exclaimed Balthazaar, then he and his crew raced to the hoard of treasure behind the throne. Evan hobbled across the bridge, diving to solid ground on the other side just as a beam came crashing down, destroying the bridge entirely.

 

     The Steel Knuckle Squad was almost to the treasure when the wall behind it collapsed, burying the throne and everything around it in a pile of rubble. They let out simultaneous cries of anguish. Then the floor itself cracked beneath their feet. A fissure opened and one side threatened to take Javaan with it as it collapsed.

 

     The centaur galloped forth and leaped as far as his strength would launch him. He just barely cleared the other side, and finally they had accepted that it was time to go.

 

     “Come on, Guys!” called Isaac, sitting atop the roc. Alaine, Glenvar, and Jeimos rushed up and climbed on behind him. Lukas rappelled from his hiding spot in the ceiling and landed between them. The ground was quaking violently and Evan just wasn’t going to make it in time as he stumbled along, falling on every other step.

 

     The roc took flight and Isaac pulled at its feathers, steering it into a U-turn around the chamber. “Evan, grab on!” he cried. When the bird swooped by, Evan reached up and snagged it by the talons. The animal carried him towards the stairwell and flew passed the Steel Knuckle Squad, who were already piled onto Javaan’s back and half-way up the stairs.

 

     The door didn’t open when Isaac approached. This time it completely crumbled to dust and the roc burst through the cloud with a screech, careening up into the starry sky. The Steel Knuckle Squad raced out just behind them, and had they been any slower, they would have been crushed as the entire pyramid collapsed in on itself.

 

     The Freelance Good Guys watched from the sky, how the once imposing pyramid became a smoking black sinkhole in a matter of seconds. The roc circled down, landing beside the Steel Knuckle Squad a safe distance away. Javaan was forced to a stop as he panted, sweat rolling down his face.

 

     “You need…To drop some pounds…Ballyhoo…” he gasped. Balthazaar smirked, though his eyes looked doleful. He slid off the centaur’s back and took off his helm to wipe the sweat from his brow. The others did the same, taking this moment of silence to catch their breath and reflect on this most eventful night.

 

     Isaac slid off the roc’s back and ran to his crew. The five embraced him in a circle as he finally let his tears burst forth. “I thought I’d never see you guys again!” he sobbed.

“Aww! Of course we’d come back for you, Small Fry!” cooed Alaine.

“No one gets left behind,” added Evan. “That’s the rule, remember?”

 

     Jeimos examined the boy’s arms, then seized his chin and looked at every side of his face. “That masked cretin didn’t hurt you, did he? By the stars, I thought for sure we’d be rescuing a corpse!”

 

     “Not really,” Isaac sniffled. “I don’t know _what_ he wanted with me. He tried to make me wear a mask just like his, but it fell apart when it touched me. He…” The boy paused, scratching at his arm. “He killed a _lot_ of people to make that mask…”

 

     His crew offered words of comfort and encouragement, simply thankful to have their friend back. But the other crew looked sullen off to the side, lamenting the loss of their reward.

 

     Skel rubbed at his aching temples and groaned, “All that gold…Gods help us, all that _gold_!”

“We would have never tasted gruel again,” Linde sighed. Her pink eyes sparkled with tears. Balthazaar offered them both a heavy pat on the back and said nothing. His deep frown and sullen eyes said it all. Javaan gave his trembling legs a rest and dropped to his belly beside them.

 

     Evan looked upon them and felt equal parts pity and guilt. He stepped towards Balthazaar and cleared his throat, began, “I am, uh…Quite sorry about this, Balthazaar. This whole venture has been full of surprises, and I haven’t appreciated a single one.”

 

     “Hm,” the Steel Knuckle captain snorted, flashing a bitter grin. “For a minute there, I could see my wife and I packing our things and getting out of this miserable kingdom. But it seems she’s stuck in Duali while I beg for contracts a hundred miles away.” He shook his head, then glanced at Evan. “Such is the life of a lowly merc. I suppose you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

 

     Evan hesitated. After a moment he replied, “I used to. The only reason we’re not in your position is because we got lucky. We’re fortunate to have our own HQ up north and more contracts spilling in than we know what to do with.” He shrugged. “Though our pockets are empty today, we know tomorrow is another chance.”

 

     He clamped a hand on Balthazaar’s shoulder and told him, “We really owe you for your courage and integrity this night. I’ll be honest, I half-expected you to take the gold and run the moment we arrived…”

“Ha,” the other man replied, “I don’t keep scoundrels on my crew.” He gestured to the three sitting in a circle nearby. “Those are not just my crewmen, they’re my closest friends. I trust them with my life.”

 

     Evan grinned. “After what I saw today, I trust them with mine as well,” he said. He shuffled his peg leg against the sand for a moment, and after some deliberation he added, “Look…I really do have more jobs coming in than I can fill, and there are empty rooms gathering dust back at HQ…”

 

     He took a deep, anxious breath and continued, “If you and yours are willing, I would be honored to have you in my company.”

Balthazaar’s bushy brows shot up. “What? You mean move up north? We couldn’t possibly afford—”

 

     “I’d be more than happy to cover your expenses,” said Evan. “Food, housing, and transportation is on me. All I need from you is your loyalty and compassion.” He smiled. “I don’t keep scoundrels on my crew either.”

 

     Balthazaar furrowed his brow, stroking his beard in thought. He glanced back at his crew, sulking together in the middle of the wasteland. Then he turned back to Evan and said, “I’m on board so far, but I need more information. Shall we discuss this over a few drinks? I still have that paltry sum you gave me earlier. Might get us half-buzzed, hm?”

 

     “We’ll meet you at the tavern then. Guys?” Evan said, facing his own crew. “I think you’ve all earned yourself a drink or two. Let’s head back to town.”

 

     With a roar of cheers, the mercenaries piled back onto the roc. Isaac piloted the animal from its neck and they took off into the sky. His legs rested and his heart calmed, Javaan stood up, ready to make the trek back on foot. The others walked beside him. “So, what were you and the Good Guy captain chatting about earlier?” he asked Balthazaar.

 

     Balthazaar couldn’t help but smile as he replied, “You’ll see soon enough. All I’ve got to say is: this is our last night in that filthy old tavern.”

 

*

 

     Outside the tavern, drunken patrons stared as Isaac parked a massive roc beside their camels. "We'll be back in a while, Shadow. Be good and don't eat the camels!" the boy said. The roc nuzzled him as the other mercenaries dismounted from its back.

"Shadow? What, you think he's your pet now?" queried Lukas.

" _She_ ," Isaac corrected, "and she's not my pet! She's my friend."

 

     "Isaac, I hope you don't plan on keeping that thing..." Evan told him gently.

Isaac whirled around to face him, eyes round and anxious. "Why not? Come on! She saved my life, Evan! She can come home with us and we can build a barn for her! I'll build it all by myself if I have to!"

 

     "Yeah? And what are we going to feed it? It'll eat us out of house and home!" argued Lukas.

Isaac threw his arms around the bird and shook his head. "She can eat deer from the forest! You're always complaining 'cause they wreck your garden anyway!"

Lukas opened his mouth to argue, but had nothing. Glenvar jabbed the archer with his elbow and said, "Kid's got ya there, Luke."

 

     "Actually," Evan began sheepishly, "I just realized I, uh...I gave our flight money to those other mercenaries." He tilted his head towards Shadow. "That thing might be our only ticket home. Unless we want to hang around here and beg for contracts all week..."

 

     "You know, I've always fancied birds!" exclaimed Jeimos, stroking the roc's shimmery feathers. "And what a beauty, this one! I say we keep her!"

"Me too," agreed Alaine.

"Yeah, I ain't stickin' around this cesspit one more day!" added Glenvar. "Let's ride this squawker home and work out the hard stuff when we get there."

 

     Lukas crossed his arms, let out a heavy sigh. "Fine," he said, "but if that thing shits on my house, we're all having a big, fat roast for dinner."

"I promise she'll be good," Isaac told them. "She _has_ to be. She's a Freelance Good Guy now!"

 

**END**


End file.
